Dr. Julian gave us two timelines—one if she didn’t start eating and one if she did. The first timeline was only one month, the second, up to three. Either way, in a calendar quarter, my aunt will be gone.
I don’t know what to do. I want to sit with her, but I’m scared I might upset her. I go to sit with her anyway. She’s lying down on her side. Her back is facing the Better board. I want to take it down. I don’t want her to have to see it anymore.
My throat is thick when I speak. “Hey, Ally.”
“Aw, Aubs. Come sit, sweetheart.”
I can’t stop the tears streaming down my face now. I sit, and she reaches out her hand. She wants to comfort me. I grip her hand, careful not to squeeze it too hard.
“Everything is going to be okay, jelly bean. I need you to know that. Okay?”
I shake my head, sniffling loudly. “It’s not. It’s not going to be okay.”
She scoots back and pats her bed for me to lie on it with her. I do, facing her, letting her wrap her arm around me. Silent tears run down her face compared to the sobs that rack my body.
When I’m all cried out, she puts her finger under my chin and lifts my head until our eyes meet. She tucks the strands of hair that have fallen forward behind my ear, and she leans forward to kiss my forehead. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
At first, when I awake, I think Ally is sleeping. I smile at the peaceful expression on her face. When I reach up to shift her arm, I know she isn’t just sleeping.
Dr. Julian was wrong. Ally didn’t have a month or three months. She only had one day.
I scramble off her bed. “Mom! Mom!”
My mom runs into Ally’s room with my dad a few steps behind her.
“Aubrey, what’s—” She doesn’t finish her question. She runs to Ally and shakes her. “Ally, honey, Ally. Oh God, Drew help me.”
My dad pulls her from Ally. I dumbly stand next to Ally’s bed, unable to tell if my mom is crying or screaming.
This isn’t right. We were supposed to have more time. Ally wasn’t supposed to go like this. I didn’t even get a chance to tell her how much I love her, how much I will always love her.
My mom breaks free from my dad’s grasp to pull Ally into her arms. My dad leaves my mom and comes around the bed to pull me from Ally’s room.
I look up at him. “Why, Dad? Why, Dad?”
He’s crying as well. He tucks me under his arm and leads me downstairs to our living room. After opening the liquor cabinet, he pours each of us a shot of something brown. He puts the glass in my hand, and I don’t hesitate. I throw it back. I welcome the burn flowing down the back of my throat. I set my glass in front of him, and he pours us each another shot. The burn spreads to a warm feeling in my chest.
My dad slumps into an armchair, shot glass in hand. “I don’t know what to do. Do I call the doctor? The hospital?”
He looks so hopeless. I shake my head. I don’t know.
Dr. Julian’s number is programmed into my mom’s cell phone. I go to her purse and pull it out. I feel anger from just looking at his name. He lied to us today. It’s only four o’clock. Ally was alive three hours ago. I press the Call button, and then I press the number one to be connected to the front desk of his office. As I wait for someone to answer, I feel the muscles in my throat swell. My body is physically rebelling against having to say out loud that Ally is dead.
A receptionist answers.
“Hello,” I croak. “Is Dr. Julian available?” Tears cloud my vision as each word painfully escapes my throat.
My dad watches me with weary eyes as the operator informs me that the doctor is with a patient, and she asks if I would like to leave a message.
“My aunt, Allison Chanthom”—I take a shaky deep breath—“has just died.”
I wonder how she was able to understand what I said.
My dad stands to put his arm around me. Ally’s death is reason enough to interrupt the doctor’s current appointment. I wait for him to come on the line. I wait, and I’m calmer by the time he is on the line.
“Hello.”
He lets me know that he is leaving the office to come here to legally pronounce Ally dead. I’m not sure why, but the idea of him being in my home and seeing Ally again makes me furious. I end the call before I explode.
“He’s coming here. That liar. In our house. He lied, Dad. He lied.”
Even though I’m angry, fresh tears stream down my face. My dad pulls me into a hug before leaving me to go upstairs and deal with my mom.
Again, I don’t know what to do. I want to go upstairs and hug and kiss Ally, but the idea of doing that also repulses me.
She’s dead. Ally is dead. She’s gone.
Her body is there, but her essence has left. I feel like I will regret not hugging her if I don’t. I don’t want to ever think I could have hugged her one last time but didn’t.
My legs feel like lead as I will myself up the stairs. A landing is on the second floor of my house, just at the top of the stairs. My mom is there, sitting on a chair. Her eyes are dead. She does not even notice me as I walk past.
I’ve heard the expression, parents should never have to bury a child. That must be what my mom is experiencing right now. Their mother battled alcoholism, and their father was a traveling salesman. With the difference in ages, my mom practically raised Ally.
I pause in the doorway of Ally’s room. My dad is standing in the corner. He is holding his glasses in one hand while his other is wiping his eyes. When he puts his glasses back on, he sees me hovering in the doorway.
I watch him go into dad mode. He straightens his shoulders and walks toward me. He knows what I’ve come to do, and he is giving me the space to do it. As he passes me, he pauses to kiss my temple.
I take a moment to look at Ally before moving closer. She still just looks like she’s sleeping. It seems impossible, but fresh tears sting my eyes. I make no effort to wipe them away. My eyes feel swollen and abused already. I push myself away from the doorway and go to her. I sit in the chair next to her bed. Leaning toward her, I take her hand in mine and rest my forehead against it.
“I’m not ready for you to be gone,” I whisper. “I still need you so much.” I lift my head to kiss her hand before setting it over her chest. I stand to lie back down next to her.
When we fell asleep earlier, it was her arm draped over me. This time, it is mine over her.
I rest my head on her cool shoulder, hugging her to me. “I love you, Ally. I’ll never, ever forget everything you did for me. You were always so much more than just an aunt to me. You were one of my best friends. I just want you to know how much I will always love you.”
I cringe when I hear the doorbell. Dr. Julian is here. I squeeze Ally one last time and lift my head to kiss her cheek before standing. I don’t want to see him. I blame him for time I—we’ve lost with her. More than that though, I can’t leave her. As much as I want to avoid him, I stay.
I can hear him talking with my father downstairs about arrangements for the body. I want to throw up. She isn’t a body. She’s Ally.
My father comes upstairs with him. Dr. Julian needs to officially declare her death before she can be moved to the funeral home. Detached, I watch him check her pulse before he writes down her time of death on some form.
Before he leaves, he shakes hands with my father and my mother, telling them he’s sorry for their loss. He offers his hand to me. I stare at it, not raising mine, and then he drops his hand and leaves.
The funeral director and another man come to collect Ally. She wanted to be cremated. The concept of being buried made her feel claustrophobic.
There will be a memorial but no actual funeral. She’ll stay at the funeral home until the funeral director receives hospital paperwork stating that an autopsy is not needed. Then, my beautiful aunt, my friend, my Ally will be reduced to ash.
Even after they have taken her, my mom and I linger in Ally’s room. My brain is playing tricks on me, trying to conv
ince me that she isn’t dead but just away. My sight lands on her Better board. I can see her sitting on a beach in the Caribbean, burying her toes in the sand.
There is no mention of dinner that evening. My mom refuses my plea to sleep in Ally’s bed that night, calling me morbid. I plod to my room and allow exhaustion to overtake me.
In those blurry moments where I move from sleeping to being awake, I fail to remember what happened. My eyes feel swollen, protesting, as I blink at the light coming in through the window.
In a daze, I walk to the bathroom to freshen up. As I splash water on my face, I remember. I glance in the mirror, and pained hazel eyes stare back at me before I hurry to Ally’s room.
Someone has been busy. The linens have been stripped from her bed. The mattress is an exposed reminder that she is gone.
Habits are not easily broken though. There is no hand to clasp. I find myself drifting to the chair by her bed. I’m not sure how long I sit there before the sound of a throat being cleared in the doorway draws my attention.
“Your mom and I are going to go over to the funeral home. They’ve cleared the cremation. Would you like to come with us?”
I shake my head. I only want to picture Ally here or on that beach with her toes in the sand, not on a pallet rolling into an oven.
My dad walks over to me, his hand brushing over the top of my head. My eyes sting, and I blink until the feeling goes away.
“We’ll be back soon, kiddo.”
I nod, and he’s gone. I can’t ignore the empty pit in my stomach any longer. I stand, trailing my fingertips across the stitched edging of the mattress as I walk out of her room.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I stare dumbly into the open fridge, unable to process the concept of preparing a meal. I settle on a bottle of water before checking the pantry for something to eat. After some scavenging, I find a box of chocolate chip granola bars, and I eat two.
After I eat, I run a bath. I stay in the water until it’s so cold that I shiver. I’m getting dressed when I hear two car doors shut, signaling my parents’ return. My bedroom window overlooks our front yard and driveway. I watch my dad put his arm around my mom’s shoulders as he leads her up the front walkway.
I pull on my T-shirt, hurry down the stairs, and open the door for them. This is the first time today I’ve seen my mom. She reaches her hand out to squeeze mine before my dad leads her upstairs to their room. He comes back down not long after. I’m waiting for him in the living room.
“How was it?”
“I still can’t believe she’s gone.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I know.” I do.
“Have you eaten anything?” He puts his glasses back on and focuses on me.
“I did.”
“Good, good.”
I pick at the nail polish on one of my fingers. I can’t even remember the last time I painted my nails, but the polish has glitter in it, so I might need a sandblaster to get it all off.
“What happens next?”
He closes his eyes as he spits out a verbal checklist. “The funeral home will call us about her ashes. We need to plan her memorial, but she already told us what she wanted. She has a will we have to handle. I’m really not sure what else.”
A chip of nail polish falls on the carpet. “Can I help?”
“With what, sweetheart?”
“Anything.”
He nods. “Of course.” He sits down next to me, tucking me into his chest. “Of course.”
I don’t blink away the tears stinging my eyes this time. I let them flow freely down my cheeks, comforted by the smell of peppermint and Old Spice.
For lunch, my dad heats up a can of chicken noodle soup. It feels strange to be eating soup during the summer, but it’s nice that my dad wants to take care of me. Having made enough for two, he carries a bowl up to my mom.
Ally’s obituary is in the paper today. Before she was accepted into the trial, she had written it herself when things looked bad. She knew what she wanted, even going as far as specifying people send donations to the American Cancer Society in lieu of flowers.
People still send cards and flowers.
Her memorial is going to be on Saturday, and she wanted me to read a poem.
I’m going with my mom to the store today to get a new dress. I need something more conservative than any of the black dresses I currently have. Buying new clothes for a memorial is weird. I’d rather never buy a new dress again and have Ally back instead.
My mom and I grab our handbags and head out. My dad has been taking care of most things since she died. It’s a big step for my mom to go out today.
I drive, trying to make small talk with her on the way. She smiles when she would normally laugh, and she nods or shakes her head when she would normally speak when Ally was alive. It’s still progress.
My mom slowly walks with me into the department store. After I have an armful of black dresses she sits in a chair by the dressing room. I don’t even take the time to show her each dress. I settle on a simple boatneck, cap-sleeve, knee-length cotton dress. I start to pay, but my mom stops me and buys the dress.
She’s still quiet as we leave the store, but once we pass the doors and walk into the parking lot, she links her arm through mine.
While we were gone, my dad went to the funeral home to collect Ally’s ashes. The lined box holding them is sitting on the coffee table when we get home.
My mom and I both hesitate in the doorway of the living room before walking in. She moves first, approaching the table, reaching her hand out in front of her to trace the rim of the box. Coiling her fingers into a fist, she draws her arm to her chest and hugs herself before hurrying upstairs to her room. That’s what she does now when she cries. She wants to shield her grief from my dad and me, but we both know.
I approach the table, kneeling in front of it. With my hands, I make a circle around the box without touching it. The box is six inches tall, three inches long, and two inches wide by my estimate. All that is left of Ally is in a little box.
If I open the lid and drag my fingers through her ashes, will I feel closer to her soul?
My dad walks into the room. “Find a dress?”
Pulling my hands into my lap, I place one on top of the other and nod.
“How did your mom do?”
“Good. She was quiet but good. When she saw”—I nod toward the box—“she went upstairs.”
He rubs his lips together, like he’s evening out ChapStick. “I’ll go check on her.” He pauses in the doorway. “Are you doing okay?”
“It’s weird to think she’s inside this and that…that all of her fits. Is it heavy?”
“You could pick—”
I cut him off. “I can’t, Dad.”
He nods. “It is heavier than it looks.” Then, he goes upstairs to my mom.
I stand, pausing to let my eyes linger once more on the box before I collect my bag from the foyer, and go upstairs to my room.
My dad closed the door to Ally’s room a couple of days ago. I stare at the door as I pass it. It’s almost worse now that it’s closed. It makes it easier for me to pretend she’s still here.
Our house is full of people for Ally’s memorial. Chairs are set up in our backyard, all facing a table with Ally’s urn and a blown-up photo of her from before she was sick.
Sometimes, I forget people other than my mom, dad, and I loved her. Before she got sick, she worked as a teacher for a local preschool. Teachers, parents, friends, and former neighbors come to pay their last respects.
In my new black dress, I hang back from everyone. I do not want their condolences or their excuses as to why they stopped visiting Ally toward the end.
Her pastor, my mom, and I are each going to say something. Her pastor speaks first. He talks about heaven and how death is not really permanent, that she is all around us in our memories of her. When my mom speaks, my dad stands with her, a tender hand resting on her shoulder for supp
ort. Though her voice breaks from time to time and she pauses to wipe her eyes more than once, she manages to do it. She tells stories about their childhood and funny things Ally loved. I have to wipe my eyes when she talks about Ally being with her when I was born. How she had always wished Ally would one day have children of her own.
I nervously straighten my dress when it’s my turn to speak. Ally’s poem is in my hand. I see Dr. Julian sitting in the second row. I glare at him. I still need someone to blame for her death. I am personally on the fence about the whole is-there-a-god question, so I choose to blame him.
I cling to the physical representation of her words, written in her hand, the paper now flimsy from my anxious hands. Before I begin speaking, I rest my hand on top of her urn, hoping she can give me strength.
My voice shakes, but I speak her words, “I’ve loved my life, but now I sleep, like the setting sun, gentle at its close. This battle lost though I have won. The beauty all around me breathes on. To the ones I cherished, I live on within you. Spend each day with laughter and love. I was tired. I’m now at peace.”
After speaking, it is harder for me to hang back. People seek me out to tell me I spoke well or that when they knew my aunt, she always bragged about me. They want me to know how much she loved me. I resent having strangers try to tell me how much my aunt loved me. If they really knew Ally, they would know she told me herself.
I politely nod and smile until all the guests leave. My dad carries her urn back inside, putting it on the mantel. My mom, emotionally exhausted, goes upstairs to lie down. I stay in the backyard, swinging slowly on the tree swing.
What now? I’m not sure what I should do next. It feels like I’m on hold. If I want to enroll for the fall semester, I have to do it soon. I might have already missed the cutoff. I don’t know if that’s what I want anymore. I look up into the tree, my toe tips dragging through the grass.
Long ago, my dream was to go to Yale. I wanted an adventure, and New Haven, Connecticut felt so far away from Sacramento. So much has changed since then. Now, the idea of being so far from home scares me.
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